


Dirty Talk

by canardroublard



Series: Dirty Talk [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Awkward Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gardening, Humour, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Romance, being oblivious is bi culture, everyone is bi because i say so, making terrible puns is also bi culture, yes that includes Gaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Illya Kuryakin has a problem. Sure, his garden is growing well, and his new neighbours are much less noisy than the last family, but his new neighbours are alsoastonishinglyattractive and Illya doesn't know how to deal with this at all.Maybe he should just move out. At this rate, that might be easiest.(Or, the gardening au that my beta has been teasing me about for an age but never thought I'd actually do. Because I do my best writing out of spite.)





	Dirty Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bioticsandheadshots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticsandheadshots/gifts).



> A birthday gift for my darling beta

**sowing**

(vb intransitive.

1 **:** to plant seed for growth especially by scattering

2 **:** to set something in motion)

 

 

When the moving van pulls up, Illya is relieved. The people on the other side of his duplex were friendly, but the chaos of their two rowdy children and two equally rowdy dogs was barely muffled by the shared wall, and equally chaotic was the state of their garden, which adjoins Illya's. The unmowed grass and weed-choked garden beds were forever sending dandelion seeds over to burrow between Illya's tomatoes, a constant aggravation. So no, he won't miss the old neighbours.

Between work and going to the gym, he doesn't meet the new tenants as they're moving in, which suits him fine. There are no kids running around, and he thinks he sees a young woman slipping into the front door one day, but apart from that they're a mystery.

The first Saturday of the month, Illya rises early and steps out into the garden, sighing with pleasure at the golden light, the quiet, the sheen of dewdrops which glisten on every leaf. He weeds yet _again_ , hoping that his new neighbours will at least cut their grass, and sows his peas. A productive morning.

 

* * *

 

A few mornings later, when Illya ventures out, he discovers that the grass next door is cut. Long tufts with nodding seed heads are still stubbornly standing around some of the edges of the lawn, but it's still a vast improvement. Maybe his neighbours won't be so bad, after all.

 

* * *

 

During the week Illya doesn't have much time to garden, apart from watering things in the morning before he leaves for work. But he tracks the progress of the garden next door, noting that someone attempts to hack back the worst of the weeds, seeing them spread newspaper in the middle of the yard in an obvious bid to kill the grass before constructing a new garden bed.

Through the adjoining wall, he's heard some quiet conversations, one-sided and punctuated by long silences that suggest a telephone call, a bit of pop music playing every now and then, but he's still not actually met them.

Illya glances over at their garden again. It's still messy, overgrown around the margins, but someone is trying.

 

* * *

 

That weekend, Illya once again arises to work in the garden on Saturday morning. But this time, he's not alone.

The first impression Illya has of his neighbour is of a young woman, slight, dark-haired, who is _covered_ in dirt and taking a shovel to the patch of ground previously lined by the newspaper while she swears like a sailor. Unbidden, Illya's eyebrows jump up, because he didn't even know there was an adverb form of 'fuck'.

When she stands up, sagging against the handle of the shovel and brushing her arm against her forehead, Illya jumps, realizing that he's been staring at her. But before he can turn away, she looks over, freezing for a second.

"What?" she asks baldly. Apparently she's not one for decorum.

"Ah, sorry," Illya says, shifting on his feet with indecision before he walks closer, offering his hand. "I'm Illya. Kuryakin. I live next door."

The woman stares at his hand with sharp brown eyes for a moment before shaking it, transferring a smear of dirt onto his palm but not apologizing for this.

"Gaby," she declares, not offering her last name. She looks past him, eyeing his yard curiously. "You garden?"

"Yes, yes, I do," Illya tells her, perhaps a little overenthusiastic but he'd been dreading a slump into some banal small talk, something he's never figured out, but gardening is something he can talk about for days. "And I see you do, too?"

She huffs, the sound somewhere between amusement and derision. "I'm trying. I've never lived in a place with a garden before, but I always wanted to. I didn't realize how bloody _hard_ it would be, though."

"Do you want help?"

After these words escape Illya's mouth, he and the woman, Gaby, both blink at each other. Him because he hadn't really intended to say it, doesn't know where it's come from. Her, eyeing him up and down with that look which Illya knows all too well. His shoulders hunch on instinct, but he knows it's a lost cause; he's massive, there's no hiding it, and her being wary is not unexpected.

"Sorry, never mind," Illya mutters. "Just...if you need any help, I am here."

And then, like the mature, grown man that he is, Illya flees back into his house.

 

**sprouting**

(vb intransitive

1 **:** to grow, spring up, or come forth as or as if a sprout

2 **:** to send out new growth) 

 

 

Beyond waving across the lawn a couple of times when they catch each other coming or going, Illya manages to avoid Gaby for the next week. If it were just the awkward introduction, he might be able to get over that, but there's another problem.

She's pretty.

 _Astonishingly_ so.

He's not sure how he didn't notice it the first time they met. Possibly because she was all dirty and sweaty, and he'd run away before he'd really spent any time with her. But now, seeing her bustle out of the house in a lemon yellow sundress, her hair swinging in a ponytail, humming happily to herself, Illya is truly out of his depth. Doubly vigilant, he makes certain not to stare at her, but their brief greetings in their gardens are enough that he is beginning to realize that he needs to figure out how to get over her, before he makes her uncomfortable.

Or he could just move. That doesn't really seem like a terrible option, the longer things go on.

On the second Saturday since her appearance next door, Illya is kneeling in the earth, once again weeding, when he hears movement from her side of the garden. He glances up, sees her hauling bags of soil out of her car. Illya's instincts war with each other; he's kept his distance from her and that's been serving him well, but she's never seemed uncomfortable around him, often being the first to say hello or wave to him. And it seems rude to not offer assistance.

He stands, waiting for her to turn and catch sight of him before he waves. She doesn't exactly smile, but her expression appears friendly enough.

"Would you like help?" he offers, gesturing to the bag of soil slumped heavily in her arms, seeing more in the trunk of her car.

Gaby considers this for a moment. "Knock yourself out," she finally says, resuming her trudge towards the bare patch of earth in the middle of her garden.

Cautiously, Illya ventures over, stooping to grab a couple of bags, searching his mind for a good topic of conversation.

"So, what sort of soil do you buy?" he asks, immediately kicking himself because _really?_ Small talk about dirt? Smooth.

But Gaby snorts in amusement, rather than annoyance, letting her bag of soil fall to the ground with a hard thump. "It said 'garden soil' on the bag. So I bought that. Do you know if this will be good for tomatoes? The kid at the store was useless."

Illya adds the bags he's been carrying to her pile, crouches down to look at the label. It's cheap stuff, not what he would buy for himself, but it will still be an improvement on the hard-packed earth that this neighbourhood is built on.

"Should work," he tells her, beating her back to the car and swooping in to grab the last two bags of soil before she can. Gaby gives him a smirk, but still seems more amused by him than displeased.

"God, I wish Napoleon was back. I'd make him help me with all of the digging," Gaby groans. When Illya gives her a puzzled look, she clarifies. "My roommate. He's been out of town, but he'll be back next week." She eyes him then, speculative in a way that has Illya shifting uncertainly. "You two might get along," she says, but doesn't offer any elaboration on the significance of this.

"Ah, okay," Illya responds because he doesn't know what else to say to that. He looks down at the bags of soil, the rectangle of compacted earth beneath it, and realizes, possibly more than Gaby does, that this will be a _ton_ of work. So he swallows, then goes for broke. "Would you like help? Digging?"

"I can do it myself," she shoots back, with an almost offended huff.

"Okay. Will still be faster if I help."

Gaby bites her lip as she stares down at the job before her. "You're probably busy with your own garden," she says.

Illya shrugs. "Not really." Seeing hesitation still swimming on Gaby's expression, Illya turns to leave. "But it's fine, I just thought I would offer. Good luck."

 

* * *

 

Puttering around his house, Illya peeks on Gaby's progress during the day. It's hot for this time of year, the sun relentless, but each time he looks out the window, she's still there, toiling away. Apparently his new neighbour is tough.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday morning, Illya ambles down his front walk, intending to head out for a run. Absently, he glances over towards Gaby's yard, freezing when he discovers a beautiful new garden bed. She hasn't half-assed it either, clearly having turned up the existing soil and worked the new stuff in, rather than just dumping the bags on top of the ground.

Yes, she's definitely tough as all hell. Illya looks at the payoff for her hard work, and he smiles to himself.

 

 

**leafing  
**

(vb intransitive

1 :  to shoot out or produce leaves

2 **:** to turn over new pages)

 

 

On Tuesday morning, Illya turns from locking the door behind him and begins to stride towards the street, but pauses when he sees movement on the other side of the yard. A man is trudging up the walk, a suitcase with a gummed-up wheel scraping along behind him, thudding each time it hits a gap in the pavers. He glances over to Illya, gives him a tired nod, then goes to the door, knocking softly. After a few moments, Gaby opens the door, ushering him in, and then they're both gone.

Illya shakes himself. He's got to stop staring.

 

* * *

 

That evening, instead of the one-sided conversation which Illya has become accustomed to hearing through the kitchen wall, there's a muffled back and forth; a voice which he recognizes as Gaby's and a lower, masculine one which must belong to her roommate.

As Illya settles in for dinner, alone, as usual, he hears a burst of laughter from next door. He's never heard Gaby laugh like that in the weeks she's been here. She sounds happy, though.

 

* * *

 

Gaby enlists Illya's help that Saturday, much to his surprise. Corners him while he's watering and asks his opinion on whether she's planted her tomatoes the proper distance apart. She hasn't; they're too close, so he ends up helping her dig them back up and move them, listening attentively as she tells him about the beautiful old Ford Thunderbird that someone brought into her work the day previous.

It's actually rather nice. Illya is useless at small talk, but Gaby has no trouble filling his silences, and the enthusiasm she has for her work is utterly endearing. Partway through replanting, she excuses herself and disappears into the house, leaving Illya crouched over, tenderly handling the tiny seedlings that she's purchased from the market.

"So, you must be Illya," drawls a voice from behind him. He whips around to lock eyes with the man he'd briefly seen heading up the walkway a few mornings ago. Getting his first proper look, Illya discovers that he's fit, tall—not compared to Illya, of course, but to the average—and has dark, faintly wavy hair.

Oh, and he is also handsome.

 _Astonishingly_ so.

Illya may be in trouble.

"Um, yes, I'm Illya," he says after a pause which was definitely longer than it should've been. "You're Napoleon?"

The man grimaces slightly. "I mean, yeah, technically. But call me Solo." He saunters over from the door, hair flopping over his forehead, a smile that could stop traffic emerging on his face, and internally Illya starts screaming because he was _just_ learning to handle being around Gaby without making an ass of himself, and now he has to start the process all over again.

Gaby wanders back out at that point, and Illya's honestly not certain if that makes things better or worse for him. Better, because with her asking him about the tomatoes again and teasing Solo for not helping, who provides good-natured ripostes, he can't focus too much on one of them, which keeps him from getting too caught up in staring.

On the other hand, they're both _there_ , both horribly, lamentably attractive, and Illya is giving a serious second consideration to the idea of moving, so he can get away from them before he inevitably makes a fool of himself.

Being bi truly is its own special sort of hell.

 

* * *

 

The summer meanders along, Illya making regular visits across the yard to assist Gaby with the beans, which she didn't realize required stakes and which are floundering limply along the ground, the garlic, which she planted in whole bulbs, rather than separating the cloves, so they need to transplant them further apart and Illya honestly doesn't know whether they'll survive, and the carrots, which turn into a bushy jungle before Illya points out that they need thinning. Just about everything that could go wrong is going wrong for Gaby's little vegetable patch, but she doesn't give up. Indeed, each weekend she dives in with more determination than ever, seemingly motivated by pure spite as much as anything else by this point.

Solo, Illya finds out, likes to run. This wouldn't be particularly notable in of itself, but somehow his schedule coincides so precisely with Illya's that they end up bumping into each other leaving the house, forcing Illya to abandon his normal route when he keeps crossing paths with Solo, and in the end they're still meeting at least twice a morning. It’s Solo who suggests that they just run together, rather than continuing the awkward practice of pretending to ignore each other.

He has more in common with the two of them than with his old neighbours, and these two are both so vivacious. Alarmingly so, at first, for a person as reserved as Illya. But he comes to enjoy his morning runs with Solo, chatting with Gaby while they water their gardens, sitting on his front step in the evening and listening to their never-ending friendly bickering, until they invite him over to sit with them and then continue bickering around him.

They're still both horribly, lamentably attractive. And worse still, as he's come to know them, he's discovered that they're both horribly, lamentably _delightful_ to be around. Sure, Solo is sometimes full of himself, and Gaby can be obstinate and contrary, but they're just about the most fun people that Illya's ever met.

But worst of all, Illya makes a discovery on the second Wednesday after Solo returns.

Illya already knew that his bedroom and Gaby's also shared a wall. He's heard the low thud of footsteps, or the faint sounds of her chatting on the phone. She hasn't been especially loud, though, so he's given it little thought.

But then came the sex noises.

Lying in bed on that Wednesday night, Illya tries and fails to ignore the soft moans filtering through the plaster. Before he can stop himself, he wonders who is provoking those noises from her. She's never mentioned a partner, but it's not like he shares everything with her, either, so it's possible. Whoever it is, though, Gaby sounds like she's enjoying herself. And Illya contemplates retreating to his spare room, on the opposite side of the house.

_"Mmm, Napoleon..."_

Illya freezes. It was a little muffled, but unmistakable.

Oh. _  
_

_Oh_.

The _two_ of them?

So, apparently Illya misread that particular situation. He casts through his memories, trying to recall whether either of them hinted at being together, comes up blank. They always seemed quite friendly, but he'd taken them for, well, friends.

A steady thumping starts against the wall. Illya may be no expert, but he's pretty sure _that_ goes a bit beyond the typical definition of friendship.

Images flood Illya's thoughts. Horribly, lamentably arousing images.

Illya flees again, this time to the spare bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Facing Solo the next morning is awkward.

However, this is the one time that Illya's penchant for awkwardness works in his favour, because Solo doesn't seem to find his mood remotely unusual. They go for a run, Solo chatting, Illya silent, which is usual for them anyways.

And if Illya avoids them a bit more than normal for the next week, well, life gets busy sometimes.

 

**branching**

(vb intransitive

1: to put forth secondary shoots or stems

2: to extend in different directions from a main part or point; to spring out )

 

Either Gaby and Solo aren't having much sex, or they've found another room to do it in, because Illya hears nothing alarming through the wall for the next while. So he settles back into his developing friendship with them, pushing past his crushes and trying to be a good neighbour. Soon, he finds himself chatting with the two of them while he's helping Gaby weed, letting their constant bickering wash over him as an oddly soothing hum. Other people's arguments usually irritate him, but there's no heat of anger between these two, no complicated undercurrents; it just seems to be how they interact with each other. He'd never thought that people could argue in such a friendly way, but they manage it just fine.

"No, no, we are _not_ watching Pirates of the Caribbean again," Gaby is saying when Illya tunes back in.

"Oh c'mon, it'll be fun. Better than Star Wars."

"Star Wars is great and you know it, you just refuse to admit it because it would mean I was right and you were wrong."

"When have I ever refused to admit you were right? You're always right. Except about this."

Gaby turns to Illya, making him go still like a rabbit caught between two hawks. "Okay, Illya, settle this for us."

"Star Wars, I guess?" Illya hedges.

"Why?" Solo questions, not accusatory, but curious.

Illya shrugs, faintly embarrassed. "I haven't, ah, I haven't seen either, actually. I just picked one at random."

"Wait, you haven't seen Star Wars?" Gaby asks as Solo demands the same thing about Pirates of the Caribbean.

"Don't watch many movies."

Solo and Gaby both turn to each other, grinning with such mischief that Illya is instantly on guard. These two, he's beginning to learn, are _trouble_. Both of the best kind and many others.

"Double feature?" Solo suggests to her.

"Definitely." Then Gaby faces Illya again, still grinning that sweet, evil little grin that Illya suspects he'll never be able to resist. "Are you busy tonight, Illya?"

He doesn't even bother trying to resist.

 

* * *

 

Illya's first impression of Solo and Gaby's half of the duplex, when he ventures through their front door, is that it's _messy_.

Perhaps he should've expected this from a woman who was covered in dirt when he first met her, but Solo has always seemed fairly neat about his personal habit, even fussy. This doesn't seem to extend to his living space, though.

"Sorry about the mess," Solo at least apologizes as Gaby leads Illya into the kitchen. He's got a dusting of flour in his hair, and is wearing an apron that, upon closer inspection, has little cowboys all over it. Illya's never seen a man wear an apron like this, but he's surprised that he finds it rather fetching. The ties make it nip in around his waist, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders, and Illya has to force his eyes upwards, hoping that he's not blushing.

"Is okay," Illya replies, since it's the only polite answer possible. "I like your apron," he adds.

Solo squints at him for a split second, as if searching for any derision in Illya's tone. "Thanks," he eventually says with that traffic-stopping smile that makes Illya's stomach flutter. "Cinnamon rolls are just done now." When Solo turns to open the oven, Illya nearly drools at sweet, buttery scent that wafts through the room.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," Gaby teases as she sashays over to Solo. She tries to steal a cinnamon roll right off the tray, leading Solo to scold her and slap her hand away, and Illya just stands back and watches them bicker again, the playfulness which is infused with a deep well of affection. They're terribly sweet together, in their own, fractious sort of way.

 

* * *

 

Illya doesn't really _get_ either movie. They're both implausible and silly. But he gets to see the way Gaby's entire face scrunches up in unselfconscious laughter, witnesses Solo’s delighted smile when Illya takes his first bite of a cinnamon roll and actually groans in pleasure, and he takes a couple of elbows to the ribs when those two somehow get in a tickle fight. Really? But Gaby is radiant when she's telling Solo she will kill him if he doesn't stop, and Solo's joy is impossibly cute when he 'surrenders' and Gaby immediately presses up against his side again with a pleased hum.

Gaby ends up sprawling sideways, her head in Solo's lap, her shins pressed up the length of Illya's arm. It's more human contact, _real_ contact, than Illya's had in longer than he cares to admit, and the lazy intimacy of it has his stomach doing flips again. He glances over to Solo, dreading jealousy on the other man's face, but just finds Solo smiling at him, warm.

No, he doesn't get these movies. But what he gets out of the night is a far better reward, anyways.

 

**blooming**

(verb intransitive

1: to produce or yield flowers

2: to become more apparent or fully expressed)

 

The movie night seems to break down another barrier between Illya and his neighbours, because suddenly he's just...hanging out with them. Mostly at their house, occasionally his, learning to bake from Solo, seeking Gaby's advice on buying a new car, and often just chatting. Sometimes it's all three of them, though depending on the day he might just catch Solo while Gaby is still at the garage, or Gaby while Solo is at the gym.

So it's not unusual for him to find himself sitting at their kitchen table, chatting with Gaby as she putters and does the dishes, asking whether she has any plans for the weekend.

Gaby shrugs. "I might go out Saturday with some friends. Naomi, this girl I know, she's been trying to set me up with this cute friend of hers."

Illya opens his mouth to respond, then pauses. Frowns. His English isn't perfect, but the only interpretation of 'setting someone up with someone else' that he knows implies a romantic date. But surely that can't be what she means, since she's with Solo.

"Set you up?" Illya questions.

"Yeah, you know. Like, Naomi thinks I should go on a date with her? I mean, everyone pesters me that I never date anymore, so I might just do it to get her off my back."

Illya's confusion doubles. His silence is long enough that Gaby turns around to give him a quizzical look.

"What?" she asks.

"Are you not...ah, are you not with, um...?" Unfortunately, Gaby doesn't fill in the end of his sentence, so he'll have to do it himself. "I must have misunderstood. I thought you and Solo were..."

Gaby blinks at him. Then her face contracts in a puzzled squint. "Wait, what? Me and Napoleon? Why would you think that?"

She has to be joking. But she's not laughing, not in the slightest, and Illya suddenly realizes that she's _serious_. He has really stuck his foot in it now. Her expectant stare is getting to him, though, so he mumbles something about them living together.

"Of course we live together, we're roommates."

"Okay..." He really should just drop this. He should. And yet he hears himself saying, "But you two are very...affectionate."

"No, we're not."

"You always cuddle with him when we watch movies."

Gaby huffs out a frustrated breath. "Well, I guess, but that's just because our couch is too small and both of you are stupidly large."

"Didn't he take you to dinner last week? Fancy restaurant?"

"That was just because it was my birthday." Gaby rolls her eyes. "And I told him I didn't want to do anything big, because if I'd told him I didn't want anything at all he would just throw some party."

Illya glances around the kitchen, sees the co-mingled clutter of her life and Solo's, eyes the fridge, plastered with photos of the two of them smiling, laughing, wrapped up in each other's arms. Either he is not _getting_ something important, or she isn't.

"So, you live together," Illya begins to summarize slowly, watching her face for signs of comprehension. "Neither of you are seeing anyone else." Gaby has just confirmed this of herself, and Illya's certain that Solo would brag. "He bakes those pastries you like just because you like them. You start garden in part because he wants to have fresh vegetables to cook. You go to movies together. He takes you to fancy restaurants, just the two of you. And you have se—" Illya cuts himself off in a panic, having gotten carried away, praying that Gaby won't fill in where he was going with that.

But she gapes at him. Shit.

"Oh my God," she says. "Please tell me you didn't...How?"

Briefly, Illya wishes that he could just sink through the floor. No such luck.

"The, um, walls are thin," he mumbles, staring down at the table. "I'm sorry. Wasn't trying to listen, I swear. Just, by accident, I hear. Only a couple of times,” he hastens to reassure her.

But Gaby doesn't even seem to be listening to him anymore. She's staring at the pictures on the fridge, her face morphing through about ten different expressions.

"Oh my _God_ ," she repeats. "Am I _dating_ Napoleon?"

"I think so," Illya confirms, suppressing an inappropriate fit of laughter bubbling in his chest because he's figured out by now that neither Solo nor Gaby are big on _feelings_ , as such, but not even being aware that they're in a relationship with each other might be a world record level of obliviousness.

Gaby doesn't seem to know how she feels about this. She sits down heavily in the chair across from Illya, one knee up on the seat, and stares at an indeterminate point on the far wall. And Illya never really learns how Gaby feels about it, because he has to go get groceries and she still seems rather stunned by the whole thing, so he says a careful goodbye and slips out.

 

* * *

 

"So, Gaby tells me I should thank you."

Illya startles, glancing over at Solo as they stretch before their morning run, finding him staring at Illya dead in the eye.

"For what?" Illya asks, not certain he wants the answer if this is about what he's really hoping it's _not_ about.

"Well, when I got home last night she said to me, and I quote, 'I was chatting with Illya this afternoon and he made me realize that you and I have both been total morons', and then she stuck her tongue down my throat and things progressed from there, so to speak. To be clear, she did specifically tell me to thank you, too, but that was when we were less distracted and got down to talking."

"You, um, you're welcome."

Illya is hoping more than anything that this will be the end of it, but Solo is still _staring_ at him. He bites his lip for a moment, then shakes his head and turns away, leaving Illya lost as to what just happened.

"Right, enough standing around. Are you coming?" Solo asks, a low lilt in his tone that has Illya suspecting he's missed something critical. But he feels that way at least twenty percent of the time when he's talking with Solo, so he ignores it.

 

 

**harvesting**

(verb transitive

1:  to gather a crop  


2: to obtain a return or reward, especially as a result of effort)

 

Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising that nothing really changes after Gaby and Solo realize they've been in a relationship. Illya still helps Gaby with the garden, goes for runs with Solo, and quietly despairs for how horribly, lamentably attractive they both are. But they seem happy together, and Illya is happy _for_ them. Really. He is.

Movie nights have become a regular thing, once every two or three weeks, depending on everyone's schedules. And once again, Illya is faintly surprised that nothing has changed. Gaby still ends up lying sprawled between both of them, warm and soft and smelling faintly of cherries and engine grease. And Solo never seems upset when she's leaned into Illya's side; just smiles at the two of them, affectionate, sometimes catching Gaby's eye and giving her a knowing little smirk that Illya can't quite interpret.

Solo's baking lessons continue, in part because Illya finds himself genuinely interested after the first few sessions, in part because Solo is still gorgeous in his apron, his shoulder solid against Illya's while they stand together rolling out dough for croissants. And Gaby likes to wander in, slip between them and steal bites of whatever she can get her quick little hands on, then pull back to give Solo a quirk of a smile that has Illya once again certain that he's missed something critical.

'Horribly, lamentably attractive and _puzzling'_ , has since become how he refers to them in his head.

 

* * *

 

As the harvest season hits its stride, Illya's horribly, lamentably attractive and puzzling neighbours invite him over for dinner.

"To say thank you for all of the help _growing_ these vegetables," Gaby explains as she and Illya wander back into the kitchen and she goes to resume her duties as assistant vegetable chopper, under Solo's watchful eye.

It's not the first time they've eaten together, but a homemade meal at the table feels weightier, more meaningful, than takeout sprawled on the couch while they watch Monty Python. No one is in pajamas or sweats; indeed, Gaby is impossibly beautiful in a flowy summer dress, Solo equally handsome in jeans and a white button-down, and Illya is reasonably certain that this must be some sort of cosmic punishment, because they are both temptation incarnate and it's just not _fair_.

The food is amazing, though Illya expected nothing less from Solo. As dinner wraps up, Illya is pleasantly full, and doesn't demur, for once, when Gaby offers him a glass of wine. They adjourn to the living room, Gaby pausing on her way to the couch to flip on the radio, grinning at the song which is on. Illya doesn't recognize it, but he's terrible at keeping up with popular music, so that's no surprise. He settles on the sofa, watching Solo wander over to Gaby, amusement making his eyes brighten. She tugs him closer, swinging along to the beat for a few moments before she does this ridiculous little shimmy that has Solo huffing in laughter, and Illya quietly chuckling. Then Gaby and Solo both look over to him, two tempting, plotting grins on their faces, and once again he knows that he's in trouble.

"Come dance, Illya." Solo sticks out his arm with a beckoning waggle of his fingers, matched by a waggle of his eyebrows that makes Illya snort.

"I don't dance," he insists. "You two go ahead."

"C'mon, we can teach you," Gaby says as she shuffles closer, pausing on the way over to sway to a particularly exuberant bit of music before she's standing before Illya, gazing down at him. She thrusts out her hands expectantly, glaring at Illya until he reluctantly takes them in his own, then starts pulling him up. "And we don't bite, promise."

"Unless you're into that," Solo mutters under his breath with a smirk.

Dancing is horrible. And even with Gaby and Solo dragging him about and gamely attempting to teach him some steps, his opinion hasn't really changed. What he does enjoy, though, is the heat of Gaby's quick little fingers wrapping around his wrists, the warmth of Solo's hand on Illya's shoulder when he's pulled into a waltzing embrace, the heady rush of having them both so _close_ and being not just allowed but encouraged to reciprocate their gentle touches.

It's so giddy, that Illya's guard slips a little. He catches himself mesmerized by the movements of Gaby's hips, yanks his gaze away to find himself watched by Solo. But Solo just smiles, nodding to himself like he's confirmed some hunch. And a few minutes later, he's struggling and failing not to stare at Solo's lips, right there before his face, so tempting that Illya can feel his body trying to sway forward. When he forces himself away, Gaby's keen eyes are fixed on him, the corners of her mouth quivering in a repressed smile, before she turns to Solo, the both of them sharing some secret look that has Illya puzzling once again.

All too soon, the music changes, Gaby declares that she _hates_ this song, and they're settling onto the couch, Gaby tucking into her now-customary position between them, leaning casually against Solo's arm, the both of them fixing Illya with matched, mischievous expressions. They really are trouble.

But for a while, nothing much happens. They chat about their jobs, their gardens, and what movies they'll choose for the next watching party, sipping wine as they go until everyone is just on the side of pleasantly relaxed.

"So, Illya, we have something to ask you," Gaby begins after a lull in the conversation, glancing over her shoulder to Solo for a moment, who nods, before looking to Illya again. "And you can say no and it's completely okay."

"Okay...?" he responds cautiously, confused by the careful seriousness of her tone. He'd been a little worried about them catching him staring at the two of them during dancing, but there's nothing hostile in Gaby's voice. Instead, a sort of trepidatious assessment.

"First off, we wanted to say 'thank you' again, for helping us figure shit out," Solo says with a warm chuff of laughter.

"And secondly," Gaby continues, biting her lip, "we both, um, we both really like you. A lot."

"Thank you?" Illya says, not meaning it as a question but still totally lost about what's happening. Neither of them seems upset. Nervous, if anything, but not angry at him. "I like you both, too," he adds because it seems the polite thing to say, not to mention that it's true. He does like them both. A lot. In all sorts of ways, many of which he's certain he can't admit to unless he doesn't want them to like _him_ anymore.

"Good, that's good to hear," Solo responds, making eye contact with Gaby for a quick second before he looks back at Illya. "Now, I don't mean to pry, Gaby mentioned to me that you said you're also bi, right?"

"I am, ah, bi, yes," he confirms, faintly blushing because while he's comfortable with this now, Gaby is one of the first people he's said the actual _words_ to, and hearing them coming from his own mouth sends a thrill of nervousness through his stomach.

Then it occurs to him how Solo worded that.

 _Also_ bi.

As in...

"You are bi too?" he asks Solo, uncertain exactly where the limits of honesty lie for this particular conversation, but hoping that he's somewhere within the boundaries of acceptable.

"I am," Solo answers simply.

"I am too. Not that anyone asked," Gaby adds with a rather spectacular feigned pout.

"Yes, yes, my apologies. We're all very bi," Solo says in a placating drawl, making Gaby grin at him. "A room positively bursting with bisexuals. A veritable bi-nanza. A—"

"Oh God, stop," Gaby cuts in with a groan.

"Fine," Solo grumbles. "You never appreciate my puns. Anyways, so, the reason we're asking all this, and again, you can say no. Or say you're not sure. Or say you need time to think. Really, you can say pretty much anything and it will be—"

"Will you get to the point?" Gaby demands, as Illya watches them bicker with growing amusement.

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Impatient. You can't rush into these things, Gabs. There's a delicate dance involved with broaching—" But he only gets this far before Gaby makes another frustrated noise and jumps in.

"Do you want to have a threesome with us?"

Illya goes still. Stares at her, then at Solo, then at her again, waiting for someone to laugh and tell him what a good joke that was. But they just look back, Gaby biting her lip, Solo fidgeting with the ends of Gaby's hair.

So.

They're serious.

Oh _God_.

"You...this is real offer?" Illya manages to ask, still needing the confirmation.

"One hundred percent," Solo responds with a nod.

"We just...we thought you might be interested, but if you're not that's fine, we can just pretend this never happened. I promise," Gaby reassures him, babbling now as Solo did before asking him. "Sorry, we've never really...this is new to us, too."

"Now?" Illya blurts out.

"Wow, you don't mess around. But seriously, though, it's whenever." Solo shrugs. "Doesn't have to be now. You can take some time to think about it."

Take some time to think about whether he wants these two horribly, lamentably attractive people who have been making his life an agonizingly delightful sort of hell just by being so gorgeous and tempting, who are now _offering_ to have a threesome with him? Illya has never had to think less about anything in his life.

"Is this a, ah, one-time thing?" Illya says hesitantly. It's not that he wouldn't do this if it's one-time, but he knows he needs to have the right expectations going in.

"That's up to you, too," Gaby tells him, before gesturing towards Solo. "We've been talking about this a lot, and we think it could be something more, but if you don't want that, that's fine."

Illya nods, not wanting to appear too eager or too indifferent, but no one's ever offered to have a threesome with him before and he really doesn't know how he should be acting. Gaby and Solo both look a bit uncertain, too, shifting in their seats, and it somehow reassures Illya. He's not alone in this.

"I want this, yes," he says, careful but sure. Then he finds himself laughing a little. "I never imagined...All of this time, months, I tell myself that I need to get over crushes on the two of you, because you are obviously happy together."

"Apparently it was less obvious to _us_ ," Solo points out drily, provoking sounds of amusement from the other two. Then he sobers a little, gazing at Illya. "You're sure, Illya?"

"I'm sure."

Gaby and Solo both break into relieved, excited smiles, grinning at Illya and at each other. Then a silence falls over the room.

"So, um, how do we...?" Illya begins.

"Well, I think you should kiss one of us," Gaby retorts. "Or do I have to do everything myself?"

Illya snorts, still not quite believing that this is actually happening, almost giddy at the prospect. Then, buoyed with confidence, he tugs Gaby closer, pausing to glance past her to Solo, needing one last reassurance.

Solo grins. "Oh man, this is going to be _fun_."

 

* * *

 

It is.

 

* * *

 

As the autumn chill begins its creeping return, Illya rises, smiling when he realizes that the whole weekend lies before him. He goes to spread straw over his garden, mulching the fall garlic and preparing for winter. After he's done, he wanders across the yard and taps softly at the front door. Gaby is there in a few seconds, still in her pajamas, looking so warm and cozy and inviting after his time spent in the crisp air that as soon as she's ushered him inside, Illya wraps himself around her in a bear hug, kissing the top of her head.

"God, your hands are _freezing_ ," Gaby hisses, giving him a little prod in the ribs as retribution.

"Is that Illya?" calls Solo from the kitchen.

"No, I invited the delivery guy in for breakfast. He's my new lover."

"I always knew I'd be replaced," Solo bemoans theatrically. "Well, get in here, let's see my competition."

The kitchen is almost as warm, cozy, and inviting as Gaby, but with the added bonus of the enticing scent of fresh scones.

"Good morning," Illya greets Solo's back, once again enjoying the sight of him in his apron.

"Morning." Solo turns to look at them, gazing up and down Illya with an admiring sweep of his eyes. "Damn, Gaby, how can I compete with that? That's just not fair."

"Maybe we can share him," she offers generously, settling at the table and humming with pleasure into a mug of tea. "He's big enough for it."

"Mmm, yes, he is _big_ ," Solo responds in that deep, salacious tone which has Illya rolling his eyes.

"You have filthy mind," Illya scolds, walking over to snatch a scone from the rack, with a brief detour to grab Solo's ass. Behind him, he hears Gaby snicker.

Yes, Illya's new neighbours might still be horribly, lamentably attractive, but he these days he's not really upset about that. Not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came about as a result of several very silly conversations with bioticsandheadshots, who at one point dared me to write a fic involving the words "So...what sort of dirt do you have?" as terrible flirting. The end product might not be the Dutch tulip speculation AU that we talked about at one point, but I hope that you still found it fun. Happy birthday, supreme empress of angst!


End file.
